What Re­mains

Prairie Fire - - T. A. YOUNG -

The last rasp­ber­ries

on the canes

hang weakly now,

like tired chil­dren

on the mon­key bars

at our lo­cal park,

un­will­ing to ad­mit

night is com­ing on.

A few have dropped

to the ground,

red punc­tu­a­tion marks

among the last green

words of grass.

I will pick a small bowl

of what re­mains,

take it in and place it

on the blue counter

for my wife to find and

scat­ter across her ce­real,

blood of­fer­ing

from a dead sum­mer.

What re­mains

comes to us like an­i­mals

look­ing for a place

to lie down,

like feath­ers fallen

from a pass­ing bird.

What re­mains haunts us,

a pan­han­dler’s empty hat,

drift­wood, shards of pot­tery

in a garbage pit.

What re­mains sings to us

when we are not lis­ten­ing,

writes us let­ters

that get lost in the mail.

What re­mains

is what we can­not re­mem­ber

los­ing, what we deny

ever hav­ing.

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